


the pain of loving too much

by kaitlynlullabee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, M/M, Steve is emotionally constipated, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitlynlullabee/pseuds/kaitlynlullabee
Summary: It wasn't easy for Steve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	the pain of loving too much

It wasn't easy for Steve, exactly. It was simple, sure, but easy wasn't a word he often encountered in his life in general, even less so in regards to Bucky. Even before the war and everything that came on its heels Steve struggled with Bucky. He was too bright most days, too luminescent to look directly at. Steve was acquainted with pain, between his constant illnesses and knobby spine and dicky lungs. But Bucky was like pressing a bruise, aching and overwhelming but not enough of either to deter you from doing it again and again. Being near him, getting dragged into his orbit by his inexorable gravity… It wasn't easy but it was so very simple.

Steve remembers one time, just before Bucky got his draft papers. They were in their apartment, sun hot on the concrete outside and even hotter on the planes of Bucky's face and neck where he sat by the open window. Steve sat on the floor by the couch, sketching the stairs of the Met from memory to avoid sketching how the cut of Bucky's jaw made his mouth water. He lost himself, in making sure the stairs were all even and the perspective was right throughout, so when Bucky toed Steve's bare foot with his own, Steve startled.

"How come you never-" Buck started, cigarette hanging limp and unlit from his lips. When he didn't go on, Steve flung his hair off his forehead, looking straight on at Bucky despite the ache.

"What?"

"Never mind," Bucky said, squinting and turning to face the open window, which was a sure way to get Steve to do the opposite of _never mind._

"What, Buck? How come I never _what,"_ Steve asked snappishly, setting his sketchbook aside.

"No, if you're gonna get mad at me, I'm definitely not gonna finish that question," Bucky said, a deep line in his forehead.

"Well now I definitely want to know how it ends," Steve said, trying to keep the fight out of his words. 

Bucky eyed him, blue eyes catching fire in the late afternoon light and scorching Steve's insides.

"How come you never make a move? On anyone, not just the ladies I try to set you up with."

Steve leaned back against the couch, not stunned, exactly, but not ready for the question. Not expecting it on this hot, lazy afternoon when neither of them had any plans other than companionable silence.

"Because," he said lamely, word sounding final and not like it was the beginning of an explanation. He couldn't say what he really wanted to say, not when Bucky's hair looked like a halo around his head and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone to show the blades of his collarbones, blades Steve craved to cut himself on.

"Steve," Bucky started, then stopped. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and packed it back into the case Steve had got him to keep the cigarettes from getting crumpled in Bucky's pants pocket like they always did.

He leaned against the window frame, one knee dragged up to his chest and propping up his arm indolently, like the long line of the other stretched out in front of him wasn't an image that would forever haunt Steve.

"Is it because they're not your type?" Bucky asked, eyes far, far too knowing for Steve to keep eye contact.

Steve fisted his hands together in his lap, jaw clenching against the poison wanting to drip out because this was _Bucky_ , and Bucky never deserved his vitriol. He shook his head once, not in answer to Bucky's question, but as a movement of resolve. He picked at a fray on his trousers.

"No, Buck, they're not my type."

"Tell me, what _is_ your type, maybe I can do better to match you up."

"No, Buck."

"Stevie-."

"I said no, Buck. I don't wanna be set up."

"Okay."

Steve settled a little, eyes skittering around the living room. He should have known Bucky wouldn't let it lie.

"What is your type," he said, less a question than it should have been. Steve thinks he must have known, must have felt the heat of the fire that raged in Steve even then.

Steve took a deep breath, blowing it out all at once and he looked at Bucky. Really looked, eyes taking in every line of Bucky's form because if he said it, if he told Bucky the answer to this question, Bucky would leave and Steve would only have the memory of him leaning against the chipping paint of the windowsill.

"Bucky," Steve started, voice strangled. "Buck, you gotta know. It's only ever been you. Don't have a type, unless it's stupid handsome fools too proud by half and too-"

Bucky was across the scant feet between them, cupping Steve's face in his calloused hands and tipping forward before Steve could track his movement as _closer_ instead of _away_. He kissed him, shutting him up in the most delicious way Steve had yet to encounter, so much better than a fist. He kissed him like maybe he was hoping for that answer, like maybe he knew already and was just waiting for Steve to give him a chance. Kissed him like maybe he'd been looking at Steve when Steve was avoiding looking at Bucky.

It broke too soon, breaths between them hot and ragged and scared and exhilarated. 

"Jerk," Steve said, too fond and too soft and Bucky just grinned, hands still cupping his face like Steve was made of glass.

"Punk," Bucky answered, eyes soft and so blue and Steve couldn't help how his hands fit themselves against Bucky's ribs, searching out his heartbeat.

"I don't wanna be set up," Steve repeated.

"Never again, Stevie," Bucky promised, and it sounded like bells, like chiming in Steve's head, loud and discordant and final.

"Never again," Steve repeated, tugging Bucky back in by his shirt, mouth smearing against Bucky's until the press of the bruise transformed into a healing compress, warm and welcoming and revealing. Steve felt flayed open, bare and uncovered, but the only one to see was Bucky, who never judged, never scoffed, never even looked away. He just cupped his face, holding Steve like he was something to be held. Like he was treasure.


End file.
